


The Search is Over

by lovesdaryl



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Language, Mention of Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:52:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2153127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesdaryl/pseuds/lovesdaryl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl feels he has failed the mother of that little girl - what is there that he can do to help her through this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Search is Over

He dreaded facing her.

 

After failing her so horribly, he almost couldn't bring himself to climb the steps leading up into Dale's RV, but they had finished the graves for Hershel's wife and stepson as well as ... Sophia ... and he naturally assumed that her mother would want to prepare her body or be there for the funeral.

 

As the bolt injuries in his side hadn't healed yet, he hadn't been able to do this ultimate service to the little girl that he'd nearly killed himself to find. He'd been forced to stand off to one side and hand tools to Shane, Glenn and Rick who had dug the graves for the ones they were going to bury instead of burn.

 

Useless.

 

A waste of space and air.

 

Just as they'd always told him.

 

At some point, the blond younger daughter of the farmer had come over from the farmhouse and stood next to him, silent like him, tears running down her face. Even though she'd cried the entire time, no sound had escaped her. Feeling uneasy next to her, he'd kept glancing over at her, wondering if he was expected to do something and what that might be.

 

Ultimately, he'd watched as she'd finally turned away again after some time and headed back to the house. He'd felt like a complete and utter jerk, but he'd been unable to do or say anything to her to make her feel better - and what could you say in this situation anyway?

 

The only funeral he'd ever attended was his mother's, and nobody but Merle had been there with him.

 

Watching the blond girl cry made him painfully aware once again that he himself would choke on his emotions first before allowing himself to express them. Letting others know what you felt made you vulnerable, and he had been a victim too often to allow that again. At the time, he'd been helpless and unable to defend himself, nor had there been anyone else to fight back on his behalf. His mom had died and Merle had been away most of the time and he had been to young to stand up to the monster that had kept venting his inadequacies on him.

 

He was an adult now but some things didn't change. Failing that girl's mother - and, of course, the girl - had proved yet again that he was a good for nothing piece of white trash that would never amount to anything.

 

Useless.

 

A waste of space and air.

 

Just as they'd always told him.

 

After telling him that he was as good as Rick or Shane two nights ago, up in that room, and actually kissing his fucking temple, she would have realized today that she'd been wrong. Two nights ago, they'd still had hope that he might find that girl once he could go out again. Two nights ago, he'd proved himself too stupid to watch out for his own ass, but there had been hope for the girl.

 

That was over and done, now. 

 

The image of her stumbling out of that bloody barn would haunt his nightmares forever - and he had at least one every night. Maybe she'd get her own set. Maybe she wouldn't want guest appearances in the ones in which his dad burst through his door in the black of night, belt already wrapped around his hand, buckle dangling down, ready for use.

 

He knew he deserved it, though. He'd promised to find her, but hadn't. All he'd brought back was a doll which would forever remind her mother of her death and his failure, his broken promise.

 

How could he ever face her again?

 

But the blond girl returning to the house had shown him that standing next to the freshly dug, empty graves for what had been her mother and her brother - who would ever bury Merle? - wasn't enough for her. Nor was he, standing silent and brooding and unhelpful. She had left, he'd realized some time later, to seek comfort in the presence of others. People who empathized with her loss in a way that he couldn't.

 

He, too, had lost a mother and, for all he knew, his brother. They were in the exact same spot in this. Yet he had never allowed himself the weakness of feeling anything but anger at his loss.

 

If that girl found comfort in the presence of other people, maybe the bereft mother of this lost child would, too.

 

And so, when all the graves had been dug and he was no longer needed for handing shovels and pickaxes to those able to dig them, he had turned toward the old man's trailer with a heavy heart.

 

He stood with his hand on the door knob, unable, unwilling, to turn it, mount the few steps and enter the RV in which she was sitting like a wounded animal. Unable to share her grief, just as she had been unable to share her fear because literally everybody had been busy doing shit instead of talking to her or searching for that lost little girl.

 

His heart clenched at the memory of frightening night sounds in the forest, of hunger burning in the pit of his stomach, of the fear he'd felt, convinced he was going to starve to death out here, alone, or be torn to shreds by some wild animal.

 

Useless.

 

A waste of space and air.

 

Just as they'd always told him.

 

Was Merle going to miss him?

 

He knew now that he missed Merle.

 

Just as he knew that she would miss her little girl. Forever. For as long as she lived.

 

He still had no idea what to do or say. But maybe, for her, just his being there would be enough for now.

 

Heaving in a breath of air, he turned the knob. He wasn't important. But she was, and he would not leave her to face this alone.


End file.
